


Red

by vinyl_octopus



Series: Tumblr prompt fills [11]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Crossdressing, Gen, M/M, Not Quite Gen, Slash Goggles, no death or injuries, vague mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:46:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1585517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinyl_octopus/pseuds/vinyl_octopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For anon, who prompted: "Your captain greets you in the hotel bar wearing a red cocktail dress" Not fem!Martin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

For the first time in his life, Martin considered ignoring a fire alarm. The flea-bitten hovels Carolyn paid for them to stay in were generally old and decrepit, and the slightest thing could set off an evacuation of the building. In one such place, he’d set it off himself, apparently just by using the iron underneath the smoke detector. The last thing he wanted to do right now was stumble about outside in the cold at 2am, waiting for someone to discover an over-hot shower had sent the alarms into meltdown. They were flying at 9. He could lose an hour or two, easily and then he’d – they’d – be out of hours.

A sudden pounding on the door and muffled shouting convinced him perhaps it wasn’t just a precaution. From behind the curtains, he could see the flash of lights from the emergency vehicles pulling up in the street outside. He swallowed a bitter hint of apprehension and ran a hand soothingly down his side, the tension releasing a little even as he clenched his fingers in the fabric of his clothing.

His pyjamas were right there on the bed. He brushed a finger over the well-worn cotton of the T-shirt, ignoring the sound of clattering footsteps and voices outside his room. He could easily change and be downstairs before it was dangerous.

The thumping at the door came again, the shouting distinctly panicked and echoing down the hallway outside as whoever it was banged on each door in succession. He heard the word “fire” and for the first time registered the smell of burning in the air. In fact, the air was already misty around his door where the smoke had seeped through the jamb. The fire wasn’t just real, it was close by.

He swallowed as a lance of adrenaline pierced his chest; mind flooded with memories of the smoky dark of the fuselage in Ipswich. Heart pounding, he grabbed his wallet and headed for the door. He spent a moment considering whether or not to grab his uniform jacket from where it hung near the door, but thought it would be warm, he stood a better chance of blending in without it. Nabbing the key instead, he ducked his head and followed the crowd down the stairs to the lobby.

He was lucky at first. No one was paying him the slightest bit of attention, too busy making sure their own lives were safe, and a few minutes later, too busy watching the firefighters swarm the building. He lurked in the darkness of a street corner, avoiding attention until the emergency services poured back onto the street having put out a fire in one of the rooms on Martin’s floor. Not enough damage to shut the hotel; just enough to require a few people to shift rooms.

They were allowed back to their rooms in stages, though Martin’s floor and the one below were kept until last. At least they’d been allowed inside. And it was too crowded, the hotel staff too flustered, to notice anything about anyone as they marked names off a list and directed everyone to wait in the bar, where tea and coffee were being provided “on the house”. As if anyone wanted a caffeinated drink at 3:30am.

As the crowd thinned, Martin became more and more self-conscious. Once people started to relax, they’d be looking at everyone else; not everyone was tired enough to sleep on the floor while they waited. Martin slunk off to hide in the darkest corner he could find.

“Martin?”

Not dark enough, apparently. Martin closed his eyes in resignation and gripped his wallet and room key a little tighter as a nauseating flood of humiliation trickled down his spine to squirm in his stomach.

“Hello, Douglas.” Though he was chilled to the bone – being barefoot and jacketless – he nevertheless felt the prickle of sweat at his armpits. His heart thundered with the desperate need to flee, even as the shadow over his eyelids told him his first officer was standing before him, blocking his exit…though also shielding him from view.

“Are you all right?” He’d never have imagined Douglas had that cautious tone in his repertoire.

He’d rather have avoided this scenario altogether and remained ignorant.

Martin braced himself to open his eyes. “I’m fine, Douglas.”

In a minute, he’d open them in a minute. He concentrated on kneading his toes into the fiendishly ugly industrial carpet; the faux-wool fibres rough enough to scratch and catch on his skin.

Something heavy dropped over his shoulders, and then he did blink his eyes open in surprise. A fleecy bathrobe. He clutched it around himself gratefully, squeezing unconsciously at the thick, navy material and sliding his arms into the sleeves. He belted it tightly and not once did he look directly at Douglas.

“Thank you.” The garment was enormous on him; the sleeves fell halfway down his hands and the hem dropped low, brushing the hair on his calves much closer to his ankles than he imagined it would on Douglas. But it covered his shame perfectly. And it was warm.

He looked up, bracing for scorn. Douglas was looking a little chilled and awkward in nothing but a ribbed cotton vest and his silky pyjama pants, but his expression was one of concern, rather than jest.

Martin bit his lip, face burning. Turned to stare out into the crowded bar where other guests – mostly in sleepwear, but some still in suits, or dressed for a night out – wandered sleepily between tables or huddled in wooden chairs, waiting to be granted access to their rooms.

“It was the room above mine,” Douglas said finally, tripping Martin’s brooding in its tracks.

“Wh-what?”

“The fire.” Douglas moved to settle against the wall next to Martin, arms folded against his chest, elbow brushing the sleeve at Martin’s. “Some idiot left their hair straightener heating on a towel.”

“I wouldn’t have thought…”

“No. Me either. But there you have it. They’ve told me it will be another couple of hours before I’m cleared.”

“Christ. And we’re flying in…”

“Yes.”

“Can you get another room?”

“Probably. But—” he indicated the rather larger crowd surrounding the reception desk outside “—probably also not for another couple of hours.”

Martin stood silent for a moment. “You could share with me. If you want. I-I-I mean not like…” He sighed heavily. “I’m not a… just because…” He’d clutched the soft robe in a nervous grip and forced himself to let go, smoothing the nap as he did.

“Martin.”

“If you need to sleep. You can share my room. That’s all.”

“Thank you. That does sound rather more comfortable than trying to sleep down here.”

With impeccable timing, the hotel manager reappeared in the centre of the room and reeled off another series of rooms that were safe to return to. Including Martin’s.

“Come on, then.” Martin peeled himself off the wall with a slight nod to Douglas and pulled the robe a little tighter around himself as they made their way to the queue to be signed off.

 

Martin ushered Douglas in to his room first, before standing by the bed, wringing his hands. The room was cold and from where he stood he could see the goose bumps prickling Douglas’s skin. He stepped forward to gather his pyjamas from the bed, swallowing down another blush of mortification.

“I’ll just…” he indicated the bathroom with the jumble of clothes in his hands. “Then you can,” a wiggle of the elbow to indicate the fluffy robe he was still wearing. “Just settle yourself in.” he nodded at the bed, on which Douglas was already sitting. “I haven’t picked a side, so…”

Enough awkward chit chat, he escaped to the bathroom and sagged the minute the door shut.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

In…and out...

He stood in front of the mirror as he slid the robe off. He was shaking so hard that it jerked and trembled in his hands and he nearly dropped it, catching it at the last minute to hang it on one of the hooks behind the door.

He looked at himself in the harsh fluorescent light. Hair, bright and carrot-orange over a dead-white face. Eyes overbright and red-rimmed, punched with black circles beneath. And, oh yes, the badly fitting cocktail dress. Under this light, the scarlet clashed horribly with his hair, did nothing for his skin. The sheen of the satin looked fake under more honest lighting, and what was designed to cleave to sumptuous curves strained and bagged in all the wrong places on his angular frame.

What had felt sleek and decadent just a few hours earlier now felt cheap and ludicrous. His private indulgence, meant to soothe and calm after a tension-fuelled day, had been made public in the worst way and was now the cause of his frantic, panicked breaths.

His own reflection mocked him, a rictus sneer distorting his mouth.

He looked ridiculous. He drew in a ragged breath and reached with tremor-ridden fingers to pull down the zip and end the shame and charade.

His fingers were numb; impossible to unhook the catch at the top. He clawed at the fastening desperately, breath accelerating with the rapid pounding of his heart. He tried to pull the dress off over his head instead, but it was caught, trapped at his shoulders – another reminder that this garment was never designed with his shape in mind. He ripped and tore, rending his own skin but not the cloth itself; barely restraining sobs as the hook refused to unlatch; the zip and seams refusing to give way. He collapsed against the sink with a suppressed moan of distress, dress hiked up around his hips. Of course the cheapest thing he owned, courtesy of an Oxfam jumble sale, would be the best-made thing he owned. Even his uniform would have been shredded under this concerted effort.

He leant his head down between his arms, gulping for air, trying to count himself down. Eventually his breathing – and heart rate – slowed, though both were still heavy. The pounding of anxiety had taken a wooden tone, and eventually he realised it was Douglas, knocking on the door, calling to him gently, but worriedly.

He tried to call back reassurance, but his voice cracked and he sank to the floor with a thump. The satin was no barrier to the icy hardness of the tiles beneath him.

“Martin, if you don’t open this door, I’m breaking it down.”

He could reach from where he sat. Stretched up and flicked the lock on the handle. Then dropped his hand back to his lap, staring blankly at the stained wall under the sink. The raised step of the shower stall behind him was a hard ridge against his lower back. The mildewed shower curtain brushed against his hair as he breathed, deep and slow.

There was a low click as Douglas turned the doorhandle and pushed the door gently open until it bumped Martin’s outstretched legs.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Will you let me in?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Why? I’m fine.”

“I’d like to make sure. And…I’m not going anywhere until you let me. Which at this rate means neither of us will be fit to fly tomorrow. So…”

Martin sighed. “So you want to make sure, what? That I haven’t tried to slit my wrists and won’t leave you with all the work?”

“No. Well. Yes. I don’t give two hoots about the work…but I would like to make sure you’re not hurt.”

“I’m not.”

“Convince me.”

An even heavier sigh as Martin caved to the inevitable. But arguing had restored his balance somewhat. He bent his knees and wrapped his arms around them, freeing the door to open far enough for Douglas to…crawl in.

“What are you doing down there?” Martin scowled, displaying his wrists facetiously.

“What are YOU doing down there?” Douglas’s voice was calm as he ignored Martin’s petulance and did, in fact, check both wrists and arms, as well as favouring the rest of him with an assessing gaze.

“I haven’t injured myself, Douglas. I just…I got a bit tangled.” He fluttered a hand at the back of his neck, where the dress was still stubbornly fastened.

To his own, and apparently Douglas’s, surprise, Douglas let out a snort, which caused Martin to smile, just a little…enough to send Douglas off in an actual laugh. “Come here, then.” Douglas beckoned Martin forward. “I’m a bit of an expert with these.”

Of course he was. Probably got a badge for it at whatever the Casanovan equivalent of Scouts was.

Martin leaned over, just far enough that Douglas could reach. He felt warm, capable fingers tugging at the neckline, then the fabric loosened and drooped as the catch unhooked and Douglas pulled the stiff zipper down, just far enough that Martin would be able to undo the rest on his own. Douglas clasped him briefly but firmly on the shoulder as he drew his hand back. “It’s all right, Martin.”

He believed him. For once.

Douglas shuffled out of the bathroom without another word. Once the door was shut securely behind him, Martin stood and unzipped the dress the rest of the way, sliding it off and tossing it over the spare towel hook before starting a shower. As hot as it would go.

Fifteen minutes later he was back in the bedroom, pyjama-clad and awkward, draping the borrowed robe over the end of Douglas’s side of the bed and self-consciously folding the dress to put it back in the bottom of his flight bag.

“May I see?” Douglas’s voice was soft behind him where he sat propped up in the bed.

“See?”

“The dress. I didn’t…I didn’t really look closely before.”

What was one more humiliation? Martin swallowed his apprehension and passed it over. Douglas shook it out, held it up to admire the cut, then lay it over his lap, stroking the slithery fabric.

“Very nice. Designer, too.”

Martin coughed, embarrassed. “Charity shop.”

“Aah…” Douglas was still stroking. “Helena used to have a dress a bit like this. Different colour, but similar thing. It looked lovely on her. All sensuous and clingy.”

Martin barked a laugh. “Yes. Well…I hardly—”

“—I used to love the feel of it, Douglas sounded contemplative. “She used to tell me off. I was always running my hands over her when she was wearing it. She used to avoid me at public functions because I couldn’t help myself.”

Martin swallowed at the wistful sound in Douglas’s voice. Tried not to imagine Douglas’s, or anyone’s, hands running over _him_ in that dress.

“I never thought of putting something like this on myself.” Alarmingly, there was no sound of censure or mocking.

“You’d probably have an even more difficult time than me finding something that fit.” Martin watched as Douglas rearranged the dress to sit more neatly over his legs so he could mimic the sense of sliding his hand over his own satin-swathed thigh.

Something twisted in Martin’s chest and his breath caught.

Douglas’s cheeks had flushed. Ever so slightly. “I can certainly see the appeal.” He seemed to force himself to lift the dress from his lap, folding it delicately and handing it back to Martin.

Martin put it back in his bag, more carefully than he had the first time. When he turned back, Douglas was still running his hands meditatively over the rough cotton of the bedspread.

Martin cleared his throat. “It’s not…it’s not sexual.”

Douglas looked up, eyebrows raised in query. Martin steeled himself. “Not really. I mean, it…it feels _nice_ but it’s…”

“Soothing?”

“Yes. Something like that. I…it helps me to relax. It’s not like I want…I don’t want to be a _woman_ or anything…Not that there’s anything wrong with... I just… it’s calming. I never used to….before. It was only ever at home. But after…after Saint Petersburg, I just… Needed something with me. Just in case.”

Douglas nodded thoughtfully. Martin watched as his hands were _still_ fondling the folds and seam lines of the bedding.

“Not quite so relaxing when I’m parading around the neighbourhood like a pervert, though.” He managed a tentative, self-deprecating half-grin as he climbed warily into the other side of the bed.

Douglas blinked, stopped his hands, and slid further under the covers; twisting on his side to look Martin in the eye. “I don’t think you’re a pervert.”

Martin clicked off the lamp. The only light left was from the street outside, the stubborn glow filtering through the shoddy weave of the tatty curtains. “I’ve never told anyone before.”

“You didn’t exactly _tell_ me…” There was a smidgeon of apology tucked in there, though it was hardly Douglas’s fault he’d found out.

“No. Just put on a performance for an entire hotel… Oh, _GOD_ … were Carolyn and Arthur there?” All the knots of tension that had been gradually releasing tightened sharply, as if someone had pulled a central cord.

“They were,” Douglas said, clearly watching Martin’s every expression. “But I don’t think they saw. They’re a few floors up, remember, and on the other side of the building. I think they were among the first to be allowed back in.”

Martin uncoiled a touch, but he could feel he was shivering again. Nerves, not cold.

“It was hardly a ‘performance’,” said Douglas. “I only saw you because we were chivvied into the bar…and I was looking for you. With your luck, I thought it might have been your room on fire!”

Martin allowed a tiny smile to flick on and off.

“Honestly, Martin,” Douglas reached out a tentative hand to press Martin’s shoulder comfortingly. “It’s fine. Your secret is safe with me.”

“For now,” said Martin, trying not to lean into the touch as the cotton of his T-shirt rubbed against his skin. “But what happens the next time you—”

“Not just ‘for now’. Good lord, you give me more than enough ammunition on a daily basis. I hardly think I need to start looking to your private life to find more to tease you about.” The gentle squeeze of his shoulder and the genuine smile undermined his teasing threat.

Martin managed a more believable smile. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure….Captain.”

Martin rolled his eyes and flipped himself over to face away from Douglas and settle to a few hours’ sleep. As his bare foot made accidental contact with the soft, silky leg of the other man’s expensive pyjamas, he considered that perhaps Douglas wasn’t the worst person to have uncovered his secret.


End file.
